


Cave Canem

by emef



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bad Poetry, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-02
Updated: 2011-11-02
Packaged: 2017-10-25 15:11:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emef/pseuds/emef
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John adopts a dog ; accidentally acquires a poetry habit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cave Canem

The thing with "Sherlock", is that it's a terrible name for the object of an infatuation. Imagine singing a love song about a man called "Sherlock"! It would be comedic at best, with awful rhymes like

"Take me sweet Sherlock  
On your door hang a sock  
Bang me with your cock  
Land me in your dock"

Quality rhymes are just not going to happen with a name like "Sherlock".

Anyway - and I swear this is related - I got a dog.

*

He is a great big bulldog. At first I wanted to call him Colin, because I had a box called Colin (long time ago, long story). But then I changed my mind. It was when I looked into the cage at the pound. There he was, with his absurdly mournful dog eyes, and I just -

"Gladstone", I called out to him. "Gladstone, you great brute. Let's take you home, shall we?"

He wagged his tail in a way that implied "that sounds lovely, John", and we were off.

And as soon as we left the pound, I could tell Gladstone and I were going to be great friends. He barked at taxi cutting off a pedestrian, growled at a hipster in skinny jeans, and attracted the attention of some really very good-looking people. This was going to be great.

Then we got to Baker street.

*

Now, I couldn't say what _exactly_ had provoked me to go to the pound that day. No specific incident made me think "oh hey, I know what would be great : a dog". Nothing had happened. Nothing about that day was different. Sherlock was working on a case by himself. The weather was bad. There was nothing on television.

I suppose that Sherlock's habits of disappearing without warning, reckless disregard for his well-being, and leaving of body parts in the refrigerator had something to do with my choice of… _not_ warning him at all and/or feeling like I owed him a warning.

*

There was no one home when we got there. Gladstone settled in like he'd always been meant to live at 221b Baker Street. I made myself a sandwich.

Then Sherlock got home. He galloped through the door, grabbed half my sandwich, started towards his room - and then stopped.

"This is Gladstone", I told him.

He blinked. "Why do you require a Gladstone, Watson?"

"What do you mean, Sherlock?" I said, deliberately misunderstanding. Why should I have to explain myself to him?

"Protection? Companionship? Incentive to get more fresh air? Chat-up topic at the park?"

I cut him off. "Do you object to my having a dog here?"

*

In case anyone thinks I got Gladstone to annoy Sherlock, out of dislike for him, let me correct you. I do not dislike Sherlock. He makes me crazy, but I do not dislike him.

I don't dislike him at all.

*

So that's how I got a dog. We've settled into a nice home life. Sherlock ignores Gladstone. Gladstone mostly blends in with the furniture. I take Gladstone out for his walk every morning and every evening.

Every morning, we walk past a book shop. It's a nice enough second-hand book shop. And. Well. Long story short - I've started reading poetry. A lot of poetry. Inexcusably sentimental poetry. A lot of Auden. Housman. John Donne.

Sherlock hasn't commented on my book purchases, but to be fair, I'm not sure he's noticed. He's been busy with a robbery involving a lot of people with red hair.

*

The thing is, I've also started _writing_ poetry. Not that I'll be reproducing any it here. I've written in a notebook, and kept it. Some of it is about Sherlock.

It started just a little while ago. I was reading :

"And both that morning equally lay  
In leaves no step had trodden black.  
Oh, I kept the first for another day!  
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,  
I doubted if I should ever come back."

And all of a sudden all I could think was : "I have to tell the truth. In writing, in a notebook. Then the notebook will eat it and the world will be safe again".

And it just started pouring out, in all its sentimental, repressed glory. Which I then hid under a floorboard.

*

This is how unintelligent I am : I've brought the notebook along with me on every one of Gladstone's walks. Every. Single. One. And _then_ , I asked Sherlock to take Gladstone on one of his evening walks. Because I was stuck at the surgery. Until late.

It was practically the middle of the night, in fact, and I know Sherlock doesn't care about Gladstone's bladder, but I didn't want to come home to a dog-urine stench in the hallway. So I called Sherlock. Who - uncharacteristically - actually did what I asked him to do. And the minute Gladstone heard the sound of his leash, he led Sherlock straight to the notebook-hiding floorboard.

*

So when I came home, it was to find Sherlock and Gladstone, both on the couch, fast asleep. And to find Sherlock clutching my notebook.

I died a little.

But then Sherlock woke, and stood. And stared at me. Or, no, he _examined_. He examined me. Then he handed me the notebook. And I took it in my hands, and felt his hand under mine.

"John", he said, "I've been told that "Even when poetry has meaning, as it usually has, it may be inadvisable to draw it out.. Perfect understanding will sometimes almost extinguish pleasures"."

I couldn't quite think of a good comeback for that. I couldn't _believe_ he was quoting Housman at me.

And no matter how much I write in that notebook, no matter how hard I try, i'm sure I'll never find the words to say what it was like when Sherlock wished me a "good night, John". He was still examining me. It sort of sounded like he was saying something else.

So I said the same. "Good night, Sherlock."


End file.
